


Silhouettes in Silver

by wickersnap



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Movie-typical violence, Spy AU Kinda, The Bourne Identity AU, Violence, warning for one non graphic suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: He wakes up.He wakes up on a research ship in the middle of the ocean, two weeks from port and with nothing to call himself. He follows his one and only clue to a Swiss bank and an account in which he finds hundreds of thousands in numerous currencies, a hand gun, several passports and one legitimate-seeming name and address: Max Eisenhardt, Dusseldorf, Germany.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9
Collections: 2020 Cherik Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel absolutely awful that this is still a wip (I'm so sorry ;-;) but I am trying very hard!! I had lots of distractions especially with the a-levels & universities disasters here in the UK, and that this fic is somehow incredibly hard to gain traction on. I am doing my best, and I hope you enjoy!!

He wakes up.

He wakes up lying on his front with a burning pain across his back and a roiling unsteadiness in his stomach. He lifts his head to look up and finds himself in a small room, dim, of mostly plain white and wooden walls. Around him he can see a dirty cabin light, the underside of some bench seating, an assortment of crates, and the back of someone’s calves. With this comes the understanding that he’s lying on the floor—quite a grim one, at that—in half a wetsuit, injured and accompanied.

Gritting his teeth against the pain he heaves himself silently to his feet. The floor rocks beneath him and he sways forwards, sticking an arm out to brace against the wall. The other person in the room is a woman, black-haired and staring at something against the far wall. Surrounding her are tool boxes and medical supplies and splatters of blood. She turns and sees his vacated position on the floor. 

He lunges.

“Who are you?!” he demands. He pins her to the wall where she shrieks in a language he can’t parse. “Where am I?! What are you doing to me?!”

She struggles, terror splayed openly across her face. “I am a friend!” she cries. “A friend! You are hurt!”

“Who are you?” he repeats, pressing harder into her shoulder.

“Cassandra!” she yelps. “My name is Cassandra, we are a research ship! Friends!”

He relaxes his grip but keeps her there, where he can see her. The ship rocks again. “Why am I here?” 

“You were in the water, we pulled you out! You had two bullets in your back, and this.” He stands back farther to let her breathe. She presents him her palm, upon which is a tiny grey capsule. “This was in your hip. Why was it in your hip?”

He takes the capsule, rolling it between his fingers. “I don’t know,” he says. He lets her go, and she stumbles forwards shakily.

“Who are you?” she asks eventually. 

He stops, holding the capsule between forefinger and thumb. “I don’t know.”

######  _ \- x - _

It is almost two weeks before the ship is finally due in at port. Cassandra finds him below decks one evening surrounded by a plethora of maps, several lengths of knotted rope and all the books they could spare him.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“No better,” he growls, dropping the new knot as soon as he finishes it. “I can do this, easily. I don’t know how, or why, but I can. And none of it’s coming back, before you say so.”

“But it will,” she promises. “It will, I am certain.”

“It  _ isn’t!” _ he says. “We will dock tomorrow and I don’t even know my name!”

She nods, watching him quietly from the doorway. “You know where you’re going, do not lose hope.”

He laughs, though nothing of his situation is amusing. 

Mornings on deck are always a chilly affair. The next is no different, and the wind cuts through to his skin despite the jumpers and coat the kind crew have given him. Those who aren’t bustling about with equipment watch him watching the port come into view.

Cassandra steps up beside him and slips an envelope into his hand.

“It should get you to Zurich,” she says. “It is the least we can do.”

He smiles, running his thumb gently over the paper flap. “Thank you. You have already done more than enough.”

She shrugs. “There are more of us than there are of you.”

He takes the TGV into Paris before he can get a connection into Switzerland. Largely unable to sleep, he finds himself with little else to do but stare out of the window at blurs of green fields and, irritatingly, his own reflection. He is not actually bad looking, he considers; other than an outstanding tousle of inexplicable white hair, his face appears to be somewhat handsome. He is tall, well-built, strong and lean. And, possibly most glaringly, he can feel every single metallic atom in proximity.

He had noticed it on the ship. Without wanting to alarm anybody he had tested his findings only in private—none of the crew members showed signs of a special ability, and somehow, inherently, he knew that it was not something to carelessly flaunt. That it was dangerous, a tool and a weapon, and not something that would endear him to all. Regardless, it came to stand that he, whoever he may be, discovered his ability to manipulate metal.

He could pick this train off the rails without hurting a soul. He could crush every carriage like a paper bag and barely raise a hand. He could remove the tiniest strand or drop of metallic compound from any passenger’s belonging or being without breaking a sweat.

In such a metallo-dependent environment, he feels invincible.

The capsule from his hip is an address and an account number. He pulls it apart with his mind and traces a finger over the tiny inscription. His first port of call is this bank, ostensibly to retrieve money, in the hopes that he might be told something about himself that he doesn’t already know. If not, he may well have to decide anyway.

Fifteen hours since landing, he arrives into Zurich. He is sore from inactivity and his mouth tastes like acid, but he doesn’t have the money for a hotel room or food. It’s almost eleven in the evening, but with nowhere to go he takes to roaming the streets in the name of scouting.

He ends up on a park bench. His fingers are stiff and numb, even shoved optimistically into his armpits. Snow is collecting on his hood and freezing the tip of his nose. There are patrol officers approaching from down the road—he can feel their gear as they move. Of course, one of them spots him before he can dredge up the wherewithal to move.

“Hello,” one officer says. “Please get up. We need to see your papers.”

“What?” he says, tired and uninterested in playing the language game. 

“Your papers,” says the second officer. “Where are they?”

“Papers?” he repeats, sitting forward and wincing against the harsh torchlight. “I don’t have any papers. You see, I—”

The first officer produces a baton and presses it into his sternum. Faster than he can process it his hand is already there, holding the end of the baton firmly. Unerringly.

He can do this. He knows he can.

So he does. He pushes the baton away and kicks the officer’s knees in. He punches the second in the gut and rips him away using zippers and belts and radios, making sure that his head hits the pavement first. The first lunges, so he punches him in the face and fights him to the floor, and in only seconds he’s knocked the both of them out without proper thought.

He sheds his jacket and runs.

######  _ \- x - _

When morning comes, he is not only still shivering but tired and hungry, too. He has few prospects of finding a shower and even fewer of a toothbrush, but he forges onwards on his way along the highstreets of the city nonetheless. Snow has collected on the shoulders of his blessedly thick jumper, earning him understandable odd looks from bundled up passers by. The polished marble steps of the bank come into view and he jogs over, taking them two at a time and nigh-on colliding with some poor soul on his left.

“Excuse me,” he says, holding out a hand to steady this man. This close, his gaze falls immediately onto tousled brown curls and snow-damp eyelashes. 

“Oh!” the man says, breathless, taking a step back. “Pardon me.” 

He nods and reaches for the door, holding it open for him to pass through. The man thanks him with a pretty smile and disappears through.

“It is no problem,” he replies to the empty air.

The lobby of the bank is as grand as one might expect. Decked floor to towering ceiling in marble and granite, lined with tall, decorated columns and bustling with men in suits. He feels a little out of place in his rough jumper and jeans, but there is not much he can do about that. He is grateful, though, that he is finally out of the wind. 

He does not stare, he does not gaze around in wonder or uncertainty. He glances subtly and casually, marking security, employees and two additional exits.

Behind the first desk that he comes to is a finely uniformed and manicured woman tapping decisively away at her keyboard. She looks up when he is half a pace away and smiles. 

“How may I help you?” she asks, but her tone is not kind.

“I need to access a numbered account,” he says. Her eyes flick briefly over his state of dress while she slides a card across the writing pad on the counter.

“Please write the account number here and I will direct you to an appropriate officer.”

He picks up the pen from the adjacent holder and writes out the sixteen-digit code along the line. She takes the card, still eyeing him warily—too warily—and hands it to the attendant behind her. The guard strides away through the gates behind, and a few moments later he is directed through and into a lift.

The doors open into a short corridor encased in black marble. At the end is a conspicuous, tall rank of bars over a large vault door. There are two employees flanking the lift exit, three paces away, a row of curtained rooms on the left, and an alcove with a desk on the right. Three more employees and two patrons. He steps out of the doors and is almost immediately halted by the employee to his right.

“Your hand, please,” the employee says. 

He raises a brow until the employee inclines his head to a panel on a stand nearby. He reaches out his palm, cold with an unreasonable anxiety, and places it on the panel. The screen honeycombs out and sends out a sweeping bar once, twice, thrice before blinking and holding the ghostly blue print. He pulls his hand away and watches a ring blink across all five digits.

_ Beglaubigt, _ the display says, bordered in green. Certified.

He is taken into an alcove and the curtain is pulled across behind him. There is a desk and chair, a small bin, a phone, stationery, a fax machine, a printer. Dress shoes click down the corridor and stop outside his room. The curtain is pulled back brusquely by a tall man, greying, in glasses, carrying a silver metal repository. The man places it on the desk, unlocks it and retreats. 

Standing from the chair he’d taken, he pulls the curtain over the alcove again. The box lies on the desk, promising and ominous all at once. He inhales deeply, once, and opens it.

The lid clangs, disturbing a mess of objects beneath. Pens, thumb drives, watches, credit cards, contact lens cases, papers… A card titled ‘Occupational Medicine’ in German catches his eye. The words  _ Eisenhardt, Max _ have been penned into the name fields. He picks it up and runs a finger over the indentations. It is his handwriting. 

Beneath it is both a German and an American passport. He picks these up and flips through them, coming face to face with himself, white hair and all. On both, the name Max Eisenhardt is printed.

“My name is Max Eisenhardt,” Max murmurs to himself. Max Eisenhardt. 

Inside the German passport is a slip of paper with another address for a residential building in Düsseldorf, Germany.

“I live in Dusseldorf.” Max puts the papers aside and reaches into the tray. The corners rattle against the sides of the repository and he lifts it out. 

Underneath is a handgun. It sits atop stacks and stacks of money, all in different currencies. Max stares at it all for a good few seconds before he turns his attention to the several passports off of the side. He sifts through them. Brazil, Ukraine, Romania, France, Canada, Germany again, and, by the record cards attached to each, one missing: Magnus Maximoff. All of them have his face, even if they each have different names and dates and signatures. Max returns to the second German passport, mindful of the voices outside his alcove.  _ Erik Lehnsherr, _ it tells him. 

Who the hell has so many documents? So many identities? 

Max stares down at his own face for a moment longer before deciding. For now he might be Max Eisenhardt, but no one else needs to know that.

Dropping the passports onto the tray, Max reaches for the bin underneath the desk. He sits it on the chair and straightens out the bank’s thick lining bag inside before reaching back into the box. He levitates the gun and ammo out of the way while he piles the money into the bag, returning them to the bottom when it’s empty. He picks up the tray and tips the whole lot in too, pulling the cords tight around the opening and tugging it out of the bin. The empty tray goes back into the box and the lid sits itself back on at his command, locking without the key. He picks up the box and swings the bag onto his shoulder, emerging back into the corridor from behind the curtain. 

“Thank you,” he tells the employee behind the desk when he returns the box.

“Have you completed your business?” the bespectacled man asks. 

“Yes,” Max answers. “Thank you for your time.”

“A safe journey,” the man calls after him as he heads for the lift.

Outside, the snow may be beginning to let up. Max heads straight for the payphone across the street, digging in his pocket for change leftover from his train ticket. He tells the curt operator where he is looking to contact.

“…Yes, in Dusseldorf,” he says. “I’m looking for a Max Eisenhardt.”

“Yes sir,” the operator says. “Would you like me to connect you?”

“Yes please,” Max says, turning around to scan the street. The dial tone rings once, twice, before an answering machine picks up. His own voice speaks to him, first in English and then again in German.

There is a woman standing outside the bank, dumpy, in tweed, folding a newspaper. She makes the mistake of looking at him and looking away.

Max hangs up and crosses back over the street, walking purposefully towards the junction. A pair of patrol officers turn into the road just before the corner and pass him by, though one turns to watch him go. Max takes the right and ploughs on. He may have been wrong about the snow. 

A siren blares behind him and he tenses, stopping at the side of the road. An ambulance streaks out in front of him and he relaxes just a fraction. He waits for an opening and crosses the road again, carrying on into the next junction and past the same pair of officers coming up on his left. An oncoming tram screams as he crosses not even two metres in front of it, but he doesn’t jump or lengthen his stride, even if it’s a near miss. 

He can hear the officers on their radios as they follow him. A new set of sirens come screeching down the road ahead. At least two police cars advancing, quickly.

He glances up, ready to make a pinch assessment and is met by the proud flag of the U.S. embassy—a miracle if he ever saw one. 

Max digs frantically in his bag for the correct papers, drawing them out just as he gets to the guard on the door by the sign directing U.S. citizens away from the queues. He presents them and is waved through mere seconds before he hears the scuffle of a dozen feet on the pavement and an argument over jurisdiction.

The inside of the embassy is quiet, much like the bank and a far cry from the city streets. Max stands back to observe the goings on for a minute or so. Soon after he enters he spots the same man from earlier, the one he’d run into outside the bank. Same navy peacoat, same lilac scarf, same snow speckled curls. Max steps into line one person after him, unable to help overhearing his conversation at the desk once he is called over to talk. Unable to help wanting to. The bank bag on his shoulder pulls down heavier and heavier with each second gone.

“I need this passport within the next two days,” the man insists, smooth British accent utterly incongruous with everyone around him. “My sister is waiting for my help with my mother’s funeral. Where’s the man I talked to last week?”

Cameras above, to the side. Three security in front, several more behind. Max does not know why he is so drawn to this chance encounter. Even as he keeps tabs on every other person in the room he feels himself be reeled slowly in. It could be a mighty coincidence, that this man should turn up again, but Max rules him out as part of his inexplicable tailing party; he is much too good to be siding with them, too well-trained, fascinatingly invested in his cover, if so. He is small and has a calm demeanour, and Max is quite certain he could take him in a fight.

Max turns on his heel and stalks out of the queue, wandering farther into the lobby. He goes into the next room full of desks and conversations and into the next, pausing by the toilets in consideration. 

“You—the red bag! Sir, the red bag, put your hands up!” some American in a suit shouts. Max stops and turns to face him. A pair of handcuffs hang ill-concealed from the suit’s hand. Max lifts his hands slowly up to his ears, holding his gaze evenly as he strolls closer. Through a nearby archway he can see the whole lobby is silent and being ushered backwards, much like the adjacent rooms. The guards behind him step forward, and one places a hand on Max’s shoulder.

What an idiot.

Max snatches the hand and braces himself, heaving and twisting so the officer flies over him. He blocks punch after jab with his left arm from the second guard and uses his power to yank his belt and trip him up, landing a boot in the first’s gut as he does. The bag drops to the floor and the suit joins the fight as Max is ramming his knee into the second guard, held by his collar. Of course he’s stupid enough to dangle his handgun in Max’s face as he tries to pry the guard away. Max pushes the guard backwards into him and twists the gun upwards. The suit yells out when his finger catches in the trigger guard and staggers back, dropping it and tripping over his own feet. Max lets go of the guard and snatches the gun out of the air, kicking in both men’s knees and dropping them to the floor. He yanks them around minutely by gunstraps and belt buckles, levelling the gun at all three and watching them cower on the ground.

People are shouting now, screaming as they run from the room and away from him. Someone’s hit the alarm, too. He feels the weapons of more guards in the corridor and turns to them instead, satisfied when they back away and out of sight, hands up. He snatches up the bag and runs for it, back through the lobby and through the first door on the other side. He bins the gun immediately and races up the stairs, running nearly head-on into another American suit on the phone.

“I’m on it,” he’s saying, and Max throws him down the staircase behind him. He continues on but calls the American’s radio to him, grinning when it flies into his hand on command. The earpiece fits itself to his ear and suddenly he’s in, listening to the mobilising strike force on his tail.

The second floor is as much chaos as the others. Max walks calmly into the corridor, pausing only to pull the floor and evacuation plan off the wall. Employees are racing this way and that into pre-specified rooms and slamming the doors, taking minimal notice of him as they do. The map is kind enough to have a you-are-here arrow and a big red label on the stairway accesses, so he takes a left into the stairwell and makes to go down.

“Moving up north staircase, proceeding to second floor,” someone barks into the radio. Max about turns and heads up instead. People come running past him out of breath but he continues steadily through the third and fourth levels to floor five. He pauses to consult the map, paying no heed to the people still running around the corridor. He finds the door marked emergency exit and heads through, coming to a second, padlocked door at the end of the corridor labelled DANGER: DO NOT ENTER. It’s amusingly easy to fling the lock across the floor and pull the door open, with only a flick of his hand, no less. He strides over the catwalks, relishing in the protective field of metal objects. The next door, similarly locked, opens like a charm.

Finally on the outside, Max leans over the edge of the rickety escape balcony. The ladder is maybe two feet long at most and severely lacking for a five storey drop.

Max wraps the chain ringing the balcony railings through his belt loops and lowers himself down slowly, listening to the guards make their way through the building. His feet are back on solid, snow covered ground by the time they’re leaning over the edge with their guns pointed at the floor. Max stands in a blind corner, scornful despite himself at their lack of thoroughness.

“All clear!” some idiot shouts. The door clangs behind the tromp of careless boots.

Alone again, Max sets off down the back of the embassy. He turns into a side alley and spots a lone car parked about halfway down under a light dusting of snow. It’s a nice car. Jaguar, new, shiny. Someone turns into the alley and heads straight for it, a man in a navy—well. It’s that same man again.

The man shuffles in his pockets while he stands by the car, clicking his tongue and reaching underneath his coat into his trousers before finally producing his keys. 

“Hello there,” he says, turning to face Max when he finally comes level.

“I heard you talking,” Max says warily. “The consul, I heard you talking.”

The man smiles at the floor. “I couldn’t help but notice that you might need some help.”

Max feels like he’s drowning. Suffocating as he runs out of time, as the walls of the alley close in around him. Of course he needs help. He doesn't know who he is or what he is or why he has so much fucking money and so many identities, but he doesn't know who this man fucking is, either.

_ You’re not alone, Erik, _ the man says next, except his mouth doesn't move and his voice is speaking right inside his skull.  _ You're not alone. _

“I need to get to Dusseldorf,” Max finds himself saying, choking past the knot in his throat because he's drowning, drowning, drowning, and along comes this man, this beautiful stranger, who is just like him. “I have money.”

“As do I,” says the stranger. Sirens echo off the walls and Max twitches, turning away from the end of the alley and making sure his bag is in front of him, out of sight. The man unlocks the car and pulls open the driver’s door.

“I know who you are, Erik, but only as much as you know of yourself. Get in.” Max does get in, but he has enough of his wits still about him to do so cautiously. “My name is Charles Xavier,” the man says once the doors slam shut. “I don't know where you came from or why you were found in the sea, and I can't help with that unless you want to pose a huge risk to your sanity; your mind is not a box that can simply be unlocked and opened, after all. I do, however, believe that I can help you.”

“How much?” Max asks. “How much to Dusseldorf? Ten thousand, twenty?”

“None,” Charles says. “I don’t need money.”

“Then what? What about your sister?”

Charles chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. “I apologise, my friend. The turbulence in your mind was so loud I couldn't help but follow it. My mother has been dead years, my sister is fine. My passport is also fine, I just had to nudge the clerk into thinking it wasn't.” Max looks at him hesitantly. “Don't worry, I don't make a habit of it. And no, I don’t want anything from you.”

“Then why?” Max asks, absolutely ready to make his escape.

Charles smiles, hums a little. “The thrill. And some company. I’ve seen many of our kind, Erik, but none quite like you.”

Max is quiet for a long while. Charles starts the engine and pulls them out of the alley and onto the main roads, immediately heading north.

“How did you do that?” he asks eventually. 

“Sorry?” Charles says pleasantly. “Do what?”

“Speak, inside my mind.”

He smiles. It’s a beautiful smile, vibrant and damn-near sinful. “I am a telepath, my friend. I can hear anything if I so wish.”

Max nods, but isn’t quite sure how he feels about it.  _ It needn’t matter anyway, _ some sort of reason suggests,  _ he can’t know more than you, and what do you have to hide? _

They drive. 

######  _ \- x - _

“Thanks,” Max says when the waitress arrives. 

“Thank you,” Charles agrees, with what Max privately thinks is quite a devastating smile. Even so, the waitress turns without a word and disappears behind the bar. Max reaches immediately for his fork and digs in, manners and decorum a memory at best.

The diner is small, roadside, and lit only by dim overheads, neon signs, and the floodlights on the gasoline station court. Several people sit in booths suitably far away from them, most of them working transportation and all of them absorbed in their own worlds. The waitress is sullen but he can tell Charles has still managed to charm her, and the man behind the bar, most likely her employer, is loud and gruff.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says suddenly, effortlessly recapturing Max’s attention. “I didn’t know you were hungry. You should have said something.”

“What, you didn’t just pull it out of my head?” he asks between mouthfuls. 

Charles smiles a little sadly. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate frequent invasions. Most don’t.”

Max shrugs. “There’s not much in there to invade at the moment.”

“Passing thoughts, opinions, feelings… They’re all personal, are they not?”

Max shrugs again. “I’m not shy.”

Charles laughs. “You really are a strange one, my friend.” He reaches for his glass but doesn’t drink, instead tapping his fingers against the rim while he watches Max clean his plate. “Do you think you have a family, somewhere?”

“Probably not,” Max admits. “I have six passports in this bag, all real, all of them me. There was a handgun in the safety deposit I found them in, and I was only led there by an implant in my hip. Who has a bank account number implanted in their hip?”

Charles raises his eyebrows and pouts—actually pouts—as he considers Max. “I’m sure I could suggest a few options. You do sound rather like a spook to me.”

Managing only just to tear his gaze from Charles’ lips, Max doesn’t quite succeed in holding back his smile. “I came in here catching sight lines and searching for exits. I can tell you exactly who’s where, who’s most likely to come out on top in a fight and all six number plates on the cars outside. The waitress is left handed, the man at the bar is two-hundred and fifteen pounds and knows how to handle himself. The best place to look for a gun is the cab of the grey truck outside. That, or your glove box.”

Charles smiles again, dangerous and slow and drawing Max’s attention right back down from his bright blue eyes to his mouth. “You are good, aren’t you? Are you sure you need my help?”

“No,” Max answers honestly. “But I’d like it.”

“Then I’m here to give it,” Charles tells him. “Eat up, we have a few hours ahead of us.”

Max drifts off somewhere just east of Strasbourg. He stays that way until they get into Dusseldorf, and it’s the best sleep he’s had in the past week.


	2. Chapter 2

Max jolts awake to a loud knocking on the car window. He’s awake immediately, fingers grasping the red bag on his lap and mind leaping forward to respond. Outside the window Charles stands back, watching him pleasantly.

“I slept,” Max says as he steps out of the car, somewhat perplexed. They’re in a park, parked just on the verge. The sun looks to have only just risen and yet people are already out jogging and walking dogs.

“You looked like you needed it,” Charles says. He holds out a greasy paper bag. “Breakfast.”

“Did you stop to refuel?” Max asks, digging into the toasted sandwich in much less of a hasty manner than he had the night before.

“Earlier. Now it’s our turn.” He pulls out his own sandwich—egg, bacon, dripping melted cheese—and takes a large bite out of it. “Has anything come back to you?”

Max swallows. “Nothing of notice.” Charles hums.

They get back in the car and navigate their way through the city. Max digs out the address and Charles does his best to take them there, neither wanting to stop for directions. Just in case.

“Is that it?” Charles asks when they come up on yet another terrace of tall blocks of flats.

“I think so,” Max says scouring the road. “One-oh-four, that’s the address. There, turn in there by that lamppost.”

Charles makes an appreciative noise. “Altstadt, very nice.”

“Come on, we don’t want to hang around too long.”

“Erik?” Charles asks, watching him with an odd look.

“What?” Max asks in return, already halfway out of the car. “Aren’t you coming up?”

“Oh,” he replies. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t want you to forget me too soon.”

Max laughs. “I don’t think I could.”

“Oh?”

“You’re the only person I know.”

Charles laughs too, and they wander over to the front door. Max looks up and then down at the call panel.  _ Eisenhardt, _ it says, halfway down. He buzzes once, twice, to no avail. 

“I guess you aren’t home,” Charles mumbles to himself.  _ Thank you, _ Charles.

Max reaches for the door handle and rattles it a few times, surprised when a yelp comes from inside. A small woman runs to meet them, opening the door and welcoming them warmly.

“Herr Eisenhardt!” she cries. “I haven’t seen you for a while!”

“I must have forgotten my keys,” Max says, grateful when Charles doesn’t say anything.

“Of course,” she says, opening the door wide, “come in, come in.”

Max and Charles follow the staircase up and up until they come to the door number matching the one on his slip of paper. Unsettlingly, the door is unlocked.

“Hello?” Charles calls, closing the door behind them. Max walks into the first room he comes to: a study. He dumps his bag on the desk and looks around the room. Large, mostly empty. It’s bare, whitewashed, with few books on the inset shelves. A large mirror over a marble mantelpiece and gilded fire surround. At the other end of the room is a small sofa and coffee table, a floor lamp and some cacti, possibly fake. He doesn’t feel much like the type to look after succulents. 

He can hear Charles wandering from room to room. He goes to join him.

“This is all yours,” he says when Max appears next to him, outside the bedroom. “I mean, you seem to have the money.”

“I suppose.”

Inside is a bed with clean, plain white sheets, a weights bench and wardrobe and not that much else. Rather than dawdle he goes to find the kitchen. It’s utilitarian, a little industrial, but perfectly stocked for equipment and not entirely aesthetically disagreeable. The sheer volume of metal sings to him.

He returns to the office to snoop around, flicking through books one by one.

“Find any clues?” Charles asks, peering around the doorway. Max looks up and back down immediately, disliking how immediately endeared he is to such a sight. It’s a weakness, he tells himself sharply. Snap out of it.

“Not much,” he says. “Signs point to the shipping business.”

“Huh,” Charles says. “Not quite what I was expecting.”

“Oh? And what was that.”

Charles grins. “Nothing much. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

“Of course,” Max says, indicating with an encyclopedia of motor vehicles, “go ahead.”

“Cheers, darling.”

Max replaces the books and wanders back over to the desk. It’s uncluttered, sparse, so he reaches first for the phone and hits redial. The dial tone sounds once before someone picks up.

“Hallo, Breidenbacher Hof,” says a man on the other end, and Max holds the phone to his ear.

“Hallo?”

“Hallo, this is the Breidenbacher Hof, Dusseldorf, how may I direct your call?”

“You’re in Dusseldorf?” Max reaches for the notepad and a pen, scribbling down the name.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m looking for a guest, a Max Eisenhardt?”

“One moment please.”

“Thank you.” The sound of running water echoes down the hall. Max stands and wanders over to the window looking out over the street.

“I’m afraid I have no one by that name registered, sir,” says the clerk.

“Ah, okay, thank you,” he says before his brain catches up. “Ah, no! Wait—no, are you there?”

“Sir?” 

He marches back over to the desk and upends the bag, searching through the mess of banknotes for the documents. “Could you check another name for me, please? Ah, Magnus Maximoff?”

“One moment sir.”

“Thank you.”

Max waits several minutes before someone else returns to the call. “You called about Magnus Maximoff, sir?”

“Yes,” Max says, wary. “That’s right.”

“You are a friend of his?”

“Yes.”

“I have some very bad news for you, sir,” says this second man. “I am terribly sorry to tell you this, but Mister Maximoff has passed away almost two weeks ago, sir.” Max stops in front of the window, eyes darting but seeing nothing. “There was an accident, on the motorway. Apparently he was killed instantly. Really, I am terribly sorry to be the one to tell you this.”

A creeping sensation down the back of Max’s neck makes him twitch, turning to the doorway.

“When they came for his things it was made known to us,” the man on the phone says.

“Oh,” Max replies, “who—who came?”

“His brother.”

“Did his brother leave a number? Any way to get in touch with him?”

“I do not think so, sir.” Max lets his arm drop and he hangs up, cutting off another apology from the man. 

Unexplained alarm bells begin ringing in his head. Not from the call, but from the building he is in. He replaces the phone in its cradle and slinks out into the corridor, stepping slowly and with his back to the wall towards the front door. He peers into the bedroom, but it’s still empty.

“Erik?” Charles calls. “There’s no hot water. Is this a common problem, do you think?”

“I’ll try the water in the kitchen,” Max says slowly, moving past the door and turning into the other hall. “Don’t worry, just stay in the bathroom and I’ll see to it.”

He walks swiftly to the kitchen and switches on the tap, making sure that all of the knives on their magnetic block fly up to follow him. “Yes, it’s cold in here too,” he confirms without bothering to check. Max rips open the connecting door to the next room, finding nothing, before striding back out into the hallway, one of the knives in hand.

“Hmm, still cold,” Charles says, wandering out to meet him. Max ducks the knives behind a door jamb. 

“Hm, yes. It’s cold in the kitchen too.”

“Erik, are you all right? I—” He stops, abruptly, holding Max’s gaze as he takes two steps back into the bathroom, out of view of the front door.

_ There’s someone about to come through that window, _ says Charles’ voice in his head.  _ A man, strong, trained, with killing intent. You have about thirty seconds. I can freeze him or I can let you fight, your choice. _

_ Work with me, _ Max decides.  _ If it’s easier for you to get information while I keep him distracted. _

_ I’ll _ —

CRASH.

Max jumps and spins as the foretold man, armed and dressed head to toe in black comes sailing through the glass beside the front door and meets him head on. Max rips the gun from his hands before he can fire more than five rounds and catches them all, kicking him in the ribs and bringing them both to the floor. Max struggles with him, a shoulder to the face, an elbow to the gut, a punch in the ribs and a knee somewhere unpleasant before he calls the knives from behind the door and sends them at him. The attacker manages to dodge all but two, one in his right bicep and one that grazes his side. He grunts and sends a kick right into Max’s chest, knocking him sliding backwards into the study. Max stands and they stride to meet in the middle, trading precise punches and kicks and blocks with barely a thought. 

“Erik—knife!” Charles shouts, but Erik has already seen the glint of ceramic in his hand. He calls the pens from the desk and all the knives from the hallway, pelting their attacker with them as they scuffle until he can disarm him. He throws Erik to the ground and lunges, but gets a kick in the face and the stomach instead, collapsing back into the coffee table. Max recalls the closest thing to him, a biro, and uncaps it, advancing and blocking one-two-three blows and stabbing him in the back of the hand. He finally gets the man across the face and the ribs and kicks out his knee to get him down, summoning the floor lamp to pin him where he is.

“Erik, Erik he’s fighting me,” Charles says, fingers splayed to his temple and eyes screwed shut. “He’s been trained.”

Erik— _ Max! _ —kicks the man in the face and he groans. Peculiarly, aside from the gun in the hall and the ammo and keys in his bag, nothing he has on him is metal. 

“Who are you?!” he demands, tearing open the bag and emptying it onto the floor. The man says nothing, so he presses the lamp up to his chin as he struggles to breathe. “Who—are—you?”

There are papers on the floor. Max bends to pick them up and unfold them and is greeted with the shock of seeing his own face. Right next to all of his data. He turns to the next page and sees Charles, just the same.

Ah, Scheisse.

“He was sent here to kill you,” Charles says, strained. “There’s a plot, an attempted murder—a man called Shaw—his orders were to kill you—oh no, Erik, no,  _ no, no, NO! ERIK!” _ he yells, free hand outstretched and other pressed desperately to his face.

The assailant, half delirious, turns his head jerkily and wrenches himself from under the lamp in Max’s distraction.

_ “No!” _ Max yells and lunges as the man turns unsteadily, a grotesque puppet, and crashes through the tall study window, throwing himself out onto the street.

Charles screams. Max throws himself away from the window and back to Charles’ side, crumpled on the floor.

“Charles!” he says. “Charles, are you with me? Charles!”

“Erik,” he gasps, “he…”

Max gathers his things and shoves them back into his bag. He snatches the remnants of the assassin's bag as well. The papers splashed with both their faces, a notepad and the ammo. He gathers up Charles and his things and hauls them downstairs, covering Charles' eyes when they find the kind concierge shot dead in her chair.

Charles is breathing, still conscious. He’s completely aware of his surroundings, but he’s shocked and in pain, and Max would bet anything that he had still been in that man's mind the moment he'd hit the ground.

He drives them to the station. Charles is silent in the passenger seat, barely rattled by the body on the floor or the crowd around it but deathly still. Reeling. 

“Stay here,” Max says. “I need to hide the bag. Is there something in the back I can use?” Charles nods, picking his elbow up and resting it on the car door to prop up his head. Max gets out of the car but leaves the keys. 

He throws open the boot, thankfully clear of clutter, and picks up Charles’ collection of empty duffle bags, each smaller stacked inside the larger. He pulls out the smallest and transfers everything from the bank bag before closing the boot on it and striding off into the station. 

The concourse is huge, open and busy, churning with people rushing every which way. He glances up at the board and sees, by chance, the next train leaving for Rotterdam. But Charles is waiting for him outside. Max makes his way over to the rank of lockers and throws the empty bank bag into one picked at random, closing it and feeding it the money to lock. He takes the key and drops it into the nearest bin as wanders back outside.

Of course, the car is empty, when he gets back. Max looks frantically from left to right because he can feel the police on their tail, he swears, and almost chokes when he catches sight of Charles jogging back across the road. He glares at him as they both climb back inside, Charles taking the passenger side without a word.

“I told you to stay in the car, Charles.”

“I needed a drink,” he replies. He pulls a small bottle of whiskey from the paper bag in his hand and waves it sardonically at Max. “That’s a fucking mess, by the way,” he continues, indicating the crumpled papers on the back seat.

“I know,” Max mutters. “You should go.”

“What?” Charles asks, doing well not to choke. “You’re joking.”

“Go to the police, tell them everything,” he urges. “I got you caught up in this and it’s my fault.”

“It jolly well isn’t your fault, Erik. Not that we know, anyway.”

“Charles,” he says. Charles meets his gaze and holds it quietly for a long, searching moment. “I want to do the right thing.”

“I know,” Charles says.

“I’m on the run now, apparently. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to live normally, but I’m going to figure this out. I can’t drag you into it, it’s not fair.”

“I know,” Charles says again, never once looking away.

“Charles,” Max croaks. There are police pulling up on the road outside. A few more minutes and they’ll block the car park exit altogether. “Charles,” he says, “this is your last chance to go. You stay and we’re both marked. Walk away now and you tell them you were a hostage, you go free.”

Charles gives him a small smile and reaches back. For one heart-stopping moment Max thinks he's actually going for the door handle, but his arm twists back and snatches up his seat belt instead. 

Good. He's going to need it.

“I think we’re a bit late for that,” he says. “Don’t you?”

“Possibly,” Max agrees. He turns the keys in the ignition. “Hold onto something.”

He kicks the car into gear and spins out of the space, booking it for the exit and passing regretfully close to half a response unit.

“I can slow them a little,” Charles says watching them run back to their patrol cars. Max spares a fraction of a second to glance back, seeing nearly a dozen stand frozen in the street. 

He drives straight on from the car park, past the corner shop Charles had visited and ignoring the crossing traffic at the junction. He takes the first right and an immediate left, dodging slower cars and cyclists and generally throwing them around a lot more than he’d want. He follows the main strip up, weaving expertly through oncoming and forthgoing traffic until they meet the tram lines at Steinstrasse. The sirens are somehow gaining on them, pulling closer and forcing everyone else away. Max swerves over the tram lines, narrowly missing both crossing tram and pedestrians. 

“Bloody hell, Erik!” Charles yelps.

“Do you want to be caught?” he snaps.

“I don’t want a civilian on my bonnet, thank you very much!”

Max takes the next right down a narrower street, mostly cobbled, sending people running left and right. Two patrol cars turn in after them and one emerges in front, twenty yards farther up. He sees Charles move in his peripherals and the oncoming car dodges, colliding with a lamppost and several bollards, stopping dead.

“Thank you,” Max tells him as they scream past. He can see greenery at the end of the road so he guns it, feeling for the traffic and listening for the persistent screeching of sirens. They fly out of the side street and onto the promenade along the Graf Adolf Platz. Three cars come up on him from behind and in front, joining the two still following them through the alley. Max swerves a sharp right, out and into the cycle path, forcing the row of parked cars on the avenue between them and the police.

Ignoring the continued panic of pedestrians Max outstrips their pursuers easily, taking the protection from the bollards at the junction and spinning them into the left turn. The tyres drift with a screech and they’re off again, still shadowed by red and blue. The lights bounce off the walls of the taller buildings and shadowed street as they pass the Breidenbacher Hof, which Max hopes he’ll remember later. He takes the next left, a right, another left… And ends up losing track, only knowing that the road he’s just turned into is quiet and full of parked cars and trees. He turns into a no-entry residential road and dives behind a lorry, tearing the keys from the ignition and holding his breath. Beside him Charles has his eyes closed and fingers once again pressed to his temple. The sirens continue their approach, passing the end of the road behind them and fading quickly away. Max slowly lets the breath slip between his lips.

“They’re gone,” Charles whispers.

Max nods. “Thank you… I’m sorry.”

Charles breathes a short, derisive laugh. “So am I.”

They sit for a moment and just breathe, reeling in the quiet.

“Over there, Erik,” Charles murmurs eventually. “There’s a private car park through that opening.”

Max turns the ignition back on and follows where Charles points to bring them under cover. Once they find a space in the half empty underground lot he immediately sets to wiping the car over, made easier by the apparent recent cleaning it’s had. There’s hardly anything there other than Charles himself, though still they scour it for everything but the manual before setting out into the street. Charles lifts the empty bags and Max’s things from the boot, pulling another, full duffle from a false floor compartment. He takes the handgun from the glove box, too, Max feels it, and stashes it inside.

“Let’s get going,” he says, throwing Max his bag. “I can hide us, you find a place to crash.”

They make a stop at a corner shop for food and Max takes the chance to run over to the nearest drug store. Charles wanders around, rifling through magazines while Max makes a beeline for the hair dyes. There isn’t a wide range of natural colours available, but there are several boxes of purple and blue and even green, and then there’s this brown-red-purple thing, and actually, what the fuck colour even is that? He blinks a few times and takes a box of black and one of this dark, dirty blonde-ish brown. He also picks up a pair of hair scissors and a hand mirror, meeting Charles at the door with his purchases. 

Charles skims the knowledge of passers by to lead them to a small, out of the way hotel. It’s almost a hostel, though Max doesn’t care for much about it except the privacy. The room is worn, bland, but functional, and not overly likely to be covered in anything too disgusting. There’s space for him to take the floor if Charles has the bed, and he sets all the bags down on a nearby chair.

It’s only early evening, but the winter light has faded into watery dusk and is quickly advancing on night. Charles pushes a sandwich, a packet of crisps and a bottle of water into his hands, and they eat in silence sitting cross-legged on the bed like children.

Charles is busy sorting through his clothes bag when Max takes the scissors and mirror into the bathroom. He floats them both up, behind his head, watching them in the wall mirror over the sink. Maneuvering the scissors behind him is manageable, yes, but horribly awkward, and he rolls his eyes when he sees Charles looking so amused in the doorway. He wanders in and holds out his hand waiting for Max to give him the scissors, already eyeing the mess he’s made. Max does, setting the mirror down on the counter and doing his best to stand still. Charles takes over, trimming Max’s tangled hair to something more maintainable. It’s not too neat and it’s not the nicest, but it’s mostly even and it’s different and it’s better than it was before. 

He jumps when Charles runs the tips of his fingers over his bare shoulders, brushing collected hair onto the floor. He watches him through the mirror, watches how he studies Max’s back, the closing bullet wounds there, without once looking up to meet his gaze. After a moment or two he reaches for the boxes of dye, choosing the black Max picked for him without fuss. He gets to work on his own hair, handing Max things to hold after he’s cleared up the mess and coaxing him, wordlessly, into helping him apply it.

“We should have done this before we ate,” he murmurs, running his gloved fingers through Max’s browning hair ten minutes later. He’s right, of course, when they end up sitting silently in their underwear on the tiles of the poorly-lit bathroom with nothing to do. There’s no water dripping from taps to break the tension—it’s just as well, the noise might have driven him mad even faster—and there’s little else but to listen to each other breathe. 

Charles is half asleep by the time Max’s watch alerts him to the half-hour mark, so he tugs him gently up to kneel over the side of the bath. The showerhead splutters but spits out suitably warm water in good time. Charles relaxes into it, seemingly undisturbed by the motion of Max scrubbing his hair through with his fingers. It’s odd, even after only a few hours, to see Charles’ hair stay so dark once he’s washed out the gunk.

Charles stands on stiff knees and prods Max until he takes his place and rests his forehead on the cool, grubby ceramic. Charles sets the shower running and strokes his way ever so gently through Max’s hair. He combs and combs, wiping away all the remaining dye and seeming to press closer with every pass. By the time he’s done his chest is splashed considerably with water and his towel hangs damp around his neck. He hands Max the second towel, unmoving as Max dries off until they’re left there, stood idly, toe to toe.

Max reaches up slowly and takes the end of Charles’ towel, sliding it over his skin and letting it drop with his in a heap on the floor. Charles’ hand comes up to rest on Max’s forearm and he sways forward, minutely. Max can feel his gravity pulling him in likewise, pulling them together until they’re breathing the same air, until their fingers are tracing hesitant paths over damp, heated skin. Charles pushes up on his toes, eyes flicking swiftly over every part of Max’s face. He brings their lips together once, softly, briefly—a ghost of a kiss. Max swallows and finds he can’t take his eyes off him, looking from his eyelashes, dark and wet, to the bitten red of his gorgeous lips and his quivering throat. Max leans in, atoms at a time, his nose hovering just a hair’s breadth from Charles’ cheek. Charles looks up into his eyes and their noses brush, and Max can’t keep his hand from rising to the nape of Charles’ neck and bringing him the rest of the way, bringing their lips together again and again, more firmly each time.

Charles kisses him like he’s drowning in it, like he shares the same overwhelming sense of both perfect and not-enough Max does, like he doesn’t want anyone else. Charles’ fingers splay themselves across Max’s cheek and his other hand presses into his lower back, crushing them unthinkably closer the same way Max does because they’re both drowning in the same feeling, the same drive.

“Erik,” Charles gasps. His breath hot and teasing at—at  _ Erik’s _ neck. He nips him there, licks the bite and presses his face into Erik’s skin. Erik walks him backwards, nudging him up to kiss his way back into his mouth while he takes them back into the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and Charles follows, climbing onto his lap and pouring himself into the kiss. Erik hums and lets his hands trail down Charles back to his thighs, where he makes a small noise and shuffles closer in Erik’s lap. His fingers slip from Erik’s face, periodically, sliding down over his chest and back like he can’t choose, can’t content himself with one but not the other.

Erik takes Charles by the waist and rolls him over up to the headboard, lying properly across the sheets. He nips down Charles’ neck, stopping to suck bruises into wherever makes him twitch and groan. At the same time his hands travel again over the backs of his thighs, running nails like a whisper over soft skin. 

Charles has scars on his body. Not many, but enough to notice. The strange white smudge in his side and the hairline slice over his right-hand ribs. It’s enough to make Erik wonder what, exactly, Charles’ life was before they met. Where has he been, what does he know? Who does he know? 

Of course, there’s a time and a place for questions such as these, and this is not it. He’s brought back down from the clouds when he dips his tongue vaguely into Charles’ navel and his hips jerk up on a yelp, brushing his very discernable hardness against Erik’s jaw. Erik smirks and takes hold of Charles’ waist, pushing his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underwear and beginning to pull them down, achingly slowly. 

“Hmm, Erik,” Charles whines, pushing his head firmly down into the pillows. Erik begins to stroke him slowly, languidly, with a shadow of a touch that becomes firmer the more he lingers. “Erik,” he says, “you too.”

Charles’ hands drift from Erik’s shoulder to his waist, already slipping into his underwear and cruelly fingering his slit. Erik grunts and pushes his hips into Charles’ letting him dispose of both their underwear and resettle his legs to bracket Erik.

“Have you done this before?” Erik asks. He dips his finger along the dry trail of skin to Charles’ hole.

Charles laughs quietly. “A few times. And you?”

“Now, that’s an unfair question,” Erik says, leaning down to press a kiss to Charles’ cock. He licks around the head and draws out another sweet, high whine before pulling back again. “But I do seem to know what I’m doing.”

“I’ll trust you, then,” Charles grins, flexing his ankles in the sheets at Erik’s knees.

“Do you have anything we could use?”

Charles points to a plastic bag on the nightstand. “There’s stuff in there.”

Erik has no qualms leaning well over him to reach for the bag. “I don’t know whether I should call you cheeky or hopeful,” he says, finding both lube and condoms from the drug store inside.

“Say I’m a psychic and call me prepared,” Charles breathes, rolling into Erik’s hands, now ice cold from the lube.

“Hmm, very funny,” Erik hums. He rubs a finger over his entrance, itching to slide inside. “Relax for me.”

Charles is good as gold and better, mumbling quietly as he helps Erik work his way into him. Erik takes his direction and grins at his words of praise, making it to three fingers in mere minutes. He wants to hang on longer, wants to be absolutely certain Charles is prepared but he gets a kick to the shin for his patience and a hard tug to the back of the neck. He goes down easily, meeting Charles’ lips with his own in a mess of tongue and biting and not much actual kissing, but near enough and better than good enough for both of them.

Erik rolls on a condom and holds Charles’ gaze as he presses himself in gently. “All right?” he asks, though it comes out on a rush of breath.

“Of course,” Charles replies. He smiles and pulls his knees tighter to his chest. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Erik pushes in all the way, resting once he’s seated to let Charles adjust. He pulls out and slides back in slowly, at first, enjoying the way Charles wriggles and breathes just that much heavier for having Erik inside him. He’s beautiful like this—not that he isn’t always. The Charles underneath Erik now is all soft lines and kiss red and open, just for him, a far cry from the sharp smiles and smooth gestures of earlier but just as enticing. Erik leans down to kiss along Charles’ jaw to his lips, increasing his pace and his force just enough to push tiny, gorgeous noises from Charles’ throat. 

“Erik,” Charles moans against his lips. Erik kisses him again, runs his tongue behind his teeth and meets Charles’ in the middle. Charles moans again, twisting to angle himself better.

“Come on,” Erik says after a slew of fantastic friction, sitting back and pushing at Charles’ waist. “Over you go.”

Charles goes willingly and settles on his knees, forehead heavy on the duvet and hands tunneled under pillows to press into the wall.

“Yes,” he whines, near commanding, when Erik pushes back in. He wriggles down to meet him and Erik steadies him at the waist, gripping hard so he can pivot his hips with ease. “Mmf, Erik!”

“Charles, what a sight,” Erik rumbles, one hand straying to his neglected cock tipping towards the sheets. Charles moans as he nears it and again when he takes hold of it, panting expletives and accidentally letting his knees slip open wider. Erik pushes himself until Charles lets out a sudden yell, taking note of the angle and doing his level best to recreate it. Charles moans into the pillows on every other thrust, throwing his hips back just as readily to meet Erik as Erik is to meet him.

“Erik,” Charles pants, arching upwards as much as his arms will let him. “I want to face you.”

Erik obliges without complaint, leaning back to let Charles move and falling over in surprise when he takes over, straddling his middle and wasting no time in lowering himself back onto Erik’s cock.

Erik feels something warm slip into his mind and settle there, an unobtrusive stone in the basin of a pond. He observes it a moment, finding concentration difficult with the way Charles is moving, keeping him down with a strong hand to his chest. Cautiously he thinks of enveloping it, folding it into himself and protecting it, unsure if the gesture will get through. The presence glows with heat and wraps itself around him in return and Charles moans, loudly, leaning down to kiss Erik again. His hands slip on Erik’s chest and Erik takes them, letting their fingers twine as they fall back into the mattress. Erik thrusts up into Charles, grinning into his mouth and letting a different heat fill him up from the inside out.

“Come on, Erik,” Charles mutters, “come.”

Erik growls and fucks up harder, wriggling his hand free of Charles’ and grasping for his cock between them. He strokes hard and fast, taking his cues where he can get them and clinging desperately to a rhythm that is very quickly going to pieces.

“Erik, just come!” Charles gasps, face tight with effort and most importantly pleasure, going by the joyful exuberance of the presence in Erik’s head. His fingers scrabble for purchase in the shifting bedsheets and Erik can’t hold himself back anymore, coming utterly undone with a jerky, full shudder and an embarrassingly loud shout. Charles tips forward onto his chest, still gasping and moaning enough to do wonders to Erik’s ego. Erik returns his attention to the very hard cock in his hand, trapping Charles lips in yet another bruising kiss until he wrenches away trembling, and Erik feels his come dripping onto his stomach.

They come down together in a haze of breathlessness and…  _ Cuddling. _ It is not something Erik really thinks of himself as having a tendency for, but… It’s  _ Charles, _ is all he can think, and that’s just something that makes sense to him. It makes sense because it’s Charles. 

He’s probably in desperate need of some goddamn sleep.

“Hmmm, d’you think we should clean up?” Charles mumbles, even though he’s sprawled naked on top of Erik on top of the covers, and does not look to want to move. Erik flicks on the bathroom tap and uses the scissors left on the counter to snatch up a flannel and dunk it, floating it over to them and dropping it onto Charles back. 

“Gah!” he yelps, sliding off Erik and floundering a hand to grab it. “That’s cold!”

“And you’re spoilt,” Erik smirks, retrieving the cloth and wiping them both down. He tosses it back into the bathroom with a responding wet slap. “Would you like to get into the bed, or were you planning on sleeping exposed?”

Charles grumbles but squirms his way under the duvet, not even bothering to open his eyes. He latches immediately back onto Erik and settles in for the night, leaving Erik to flip the lights and curl in around him, stroking dutifully through his soft, soft hair.

The nightlife on the streets is quiet, that evening. There are no sirens or crying drunks out to disturb them, only the ambience of late night traffic and solitary passers by lulling them into a drift of warmth and safety. 

Erik wakes before dawn with Charles still snoring in his arms. He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


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